


something so flawed and free

by strongandlovestofic



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rimming, Smut, just pure smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-15 18:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18078791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strongandlovestofic/pseuds/strongandlovestofic
Summary: You press your thumbs into his skin, watch the way his eyelids flutter. “I was thinking I'd edge you.”





	something so flawed and free

**Author's Note:**

> "katy are you just gonna name all your fic after hozier songs" well, and abba.
> 
> hello friends, this is the smuttiest thing i have ever written. thank you for the beta, fiveyearmission. 
> 
> ALSO OH MY GOSH?!?! tumblr user keepitquick drew fanart for this fic and i am absolutely over the moon about it. they've asked that the art not be reblogged, so please respect their wishes! you can check it out [here](https://keepitquick.tumblr.com/post/184442039063/this-is-fanart-inspired-by-some-really-good-smut). iiii am overwhelmed.
> 
> enjoy! 🍋🍋🍋

Brian operates at a base level of frenetic that’s almost reassuring to you now -- he’s a fucking eager beaver, and you expect it out of him. You’re a dour asshole and he’s a Goddamn generator, and he doesn’t talk to you until you’ve had your second cup of coffee, and you don’t distract him when he’s staring at his monitor like it’s personally offended him and his only recourse is to edit the hell out of something.

It works well for him, that kind of energy buoying him through his day. It’s infectious, it inspires you to do better, to be better. It works well for him (and let’s face it, for you), until the days when it doesn’t. Until the days when that energy tips over into frantic, when he stalls out like his internal circuitry’s been overloaded.

He shows up at work on Wednesday and his smile is too tight at the edges, his eyes just this side of too open. He’s not wearing his glasses but he keeps touching his nose like he’s forgotten. You know part of the reason he paints his nails is so he stops chewing on them, he bites them down to the fucking quick, but it doesn’t seem to matter today. His thumb’s in his mouth all morning, like he’s trying to pick at each individual tooth.

(He’d told you this, late one night when the two of you were slouched on your couch -- it was after Ryan moved out, before you’d found Quinn -- your shoulders pressed together as you debated what you were gonna watch. He’d come over and you’d somehow ended up there instead of in your bed, lounging next to each other like this is what you did, like maybe what you have is more than fun. More than just fucking. He’d picked at the polish on one hand and told you, voice soft as you tried to decide if the fucking ads on Crunchyroll were worth enduring, that it hadn’t even started as a _thing_ , his nails. Laura had told him it’d help not biting them. And then he’d realized he’d liked how it looked, liked matching it with his clothes, with his latest video theme. _It wasn’t supposed to be a statement or anything._  He’d looked determined though, like he was glad it had become one.)

He’s jittery, his leg knocking into his desk every few minutes, and you know what you usually do when he’s like this -- you give him something to hold onto. But usually this isn’t a mood he starts the day with. Usually this mood develops over the hours he’s tethered to his desk, because he knows a deadline’s looming or he begins to think his script isn’t as tight as it should be. (It always is. He brings his drafts to your roundtables and they’re always _good_ , even when they need some work -- he’s too fucking hard on himself, always, like he’s still trying to prove himself. Like he’s not the reason the channel’s getting views.)

Usually his mood starts diving at 3, goes into a tailspin when it’s time to leave the office, and you ask him if he needs anything -- quietly, voices low, no one else around to hear your offer. He’ll either heave a shuddering sigh and tell you _I’ll be okay_ , or he’ll nod and follow you back to your apartment where you spend the next hour in bed, until his breathing slows. Until he stills.

This time he slides into a seat across from you in the kitchen. He looks at the space directly above your shoulder. His hands are in his lap, and you can hear his sneakers thudding in an erratic beat against the floor tile. “Hey, so,” he says, and he drags his eyes to your face -- your mouth, his eyes linger on your mouth, and the thoughts that spring to mind are fucking inappropriate for the workplace. “Are you doing anything tonight? It’s -- you don’t stream or anything tonight, right?”

“Right,” you tell him, and you want to reach out, slide your hand over his knee. Calming. “You wanna come over?”

“Yeah.” He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip and glances to the side, like he’s making sure no one’s standing there, listening. “Yeah, can I? I think I need to, um, get out of my head for a bit.”

He usually doesn’t ask. He usually doesn’t _need_ to ask. He’s usually not this wound up this early, you usually have time to get a good grasp on his mood -- but now it’s only noon and you’re gonna be stuck thinking about the determined look he gets on his face when he pushes you back against your mattress for the rest of the day.

You leave the office at 6 and he’s a foot behind you. The part of you that’s an unrepentant asshole considers stopping abruptly, _brake check,_  but he’d looked kind of -- wild, while you were packing up. Like he was half a minute from swiping the contents of his desk off onto the floor. Like he was half a minute from shoving your stuff into your bag _for_ you, and throwing you onto his emptied desk.

He stands a foot away from you in the elevator and you want to touch him, run your hand over the back of his neck, cup the base of his skull. Dig your thumb into the tension you know is there, until he lets loose a long sigh, until he melts.

You’re not sure it’d do much right now. His melting point’s a lot fucking higher than a quick neck rub in the work elevator.

He’s silent on the subway ride. He’s got a white-knuckled grip on the bar and a thousand yard stare, and when you ask him what he’s thinking for dinner he looks up at you and blinks slowly, like he hasn’t considered food in years.

“Uh, whatever?” he finally says, and his voice is rough, lower. The same scratch to the tone he gets after you've fucked his mouth, after he's told you to, after he's goaded you into it like he so loves to do. His tongue darts out between his lips and his gaze ricochets around the train, like he's gonna find the answer in the face of some other commuter.

“Okay,” you tell him, and you slide your hand down the bar until your fingers are pressed to his. “It's okay, I'll figure something out.”

“Okay,” he says, and his relief is visible, and you're beginning to think what the two of you normally do isn't gonna -- he may need, God, something else?

He's on you the instant the apartment door closes, and you get a rush of terror that Quinn's on the couch, in the kitchen, until you remember he was working late tonight. You have the apartment to yourself, and Brian's hands are in your hair and his mouth is sliding across yours, no art to it at all, like the care he usually approaches everything with is too much for him, is just too Goddamn much work. (You remember what you thought when you first met him -- that he approached everything with reckless abandon. It took you a while to realize that was the point. He spent too much time, just a whole fuckton of time making people think he was a free spirit.)

You hold his hips, your touch light -- you’re not sure what he needs from you, what he wants, aside from trying to suck your tongue out of your mouth -- and when you feel skin, his shirt riding up as he twists, he pulls away.

His eyes are wide. Your glasses are skewed.

“Sorry, ha, kind of -- I’m kind of out of it,” he tells you, and he rights your glasses with a shaking hand, and you feel lost looking at him. You’re not -- you’re not inactive in your relationship, you’re not a _cold fish_ , but he’s so much of the driving force that seeing him second guess himself is strange. Seeing him apologize for it, worse. (He usually needs an anchor, but he _knows_ it. He asks for it, demands it sometimes, _fuck me, Pat Gill, I want to feel it,_  and you call him a cocky motherfucker and he laughs.)

“It’s fine,” you tell him, and you reach for him, you find that sliver of skin beneath his shirt, rub your thumb in slow circles until his grip loosens in your hair, until his breathing’s back to normal. “You, uh -- you wanna go to my room?”

He licks his lips and nods, and when he steps back he stops -- you can see his tongue moving over his teeth, inside his mouth. “Yeah, okay, listen, I’m kind of, obviously, I am a _little strung out_ , so if we can--”

You slide your hand around his neck, like you’d wanted to earlier. Press your fingertips up against the base of his skull. He cuts himself off and looks at you, deer-eyed and just as skittish.

And maybe you should ask what’s going on. Maybe you should sit him down and pass him a beer and tell him you’re all ears. But you’re also not gonna tell Brian what either of you should be doing. You’ve not got a great track record making good decisions, and he usually dictates what goes down. (None of this is usual.) So you take a step towards him, until you’re pressed together, until you can feel his dick through his jeans. “What d’you want me to do?”

He laughs, the sound thready, and he ducks his head enough so that when he looks up at you, it’s through his Goddamn eyelashes. (Fucking menace. Good to know when he’s _a little strung out_ he can still pull this off.) “I don’t, uh.” He glances away. “I really don’t want to have to, to have to figure that out.”

He looks back at you.

That’s -- technically telling you what to do, you guess. (It’s a lot of responsibility. To do this right, to do whatever he needs _right_. You’re a shitheel on the best days, but he trusts you with this. That… that means something.)

“Okay,” you tell him, and his shoulders sag like he was holding himself tense, like he was worried you’d say no.

“Okay,” you say, and you drop your hand from his neck. “Go to my room. Get comfortable.”

“ _Right_ ,” he says, like it’s funny, him being comfortable, and he brushes his lips against yours before doing what you told him to do. Which is new.

Brian’s -- helpful. He finishes things you didn’t even think to ask him, he’s Goddamn kind-hearted... but he also completely gets off on teasing. On being an absolutely bratty motherfucker. (On telling Clayton to leave the clips where he makes you laugh in the final videos, _they’ll love it, and_  looking at you after he says it, smug. On lifting a brow when he hovers over your dick, asking you _how’s it going up there?)_

And you tell him to go to your bedroom and he does, and your feet feel rooted in the floor.

Fuck.

By the time you join him he’s lying in your bed, his clothes are off, and his fingers are tapping quickly on his stomach. “I had to kick Charles out,” he says, and he sits up, folding up one of his legs underneath the other.

You set your glasses and the cups of water you’d grabbed on your desk. His fingers are still moving, beating out some rhythm, and you kneel in front of him on the floor and wrap your hands around his.

You'd thought, in the kitchen, about what Brian not having to figure things out means. About everything the two of you have ever talked through, about the list Brian showed you when you first started fucking -- because of course he had one, he'd emailed it to you and then admitted it'd been a spreadsheet originally. Color-coded. It'd had different sex acts, kinks, and he'd already tagged some things for himself. He'd wanted to know your likes, your dislikes, your hard stops.

You'd pulled up the reply to that original email, the one that included both your answers. You'd looked over his list. Fucking… _wondered._

He looks at you dead-on and you lift one of his hands to your mouth, press a kiss to his knuckles. You separate his fingers between yours and suck one into your mouth, drag your teeth and tongue over his skin -- try not to smile when he draws in a quick breath.

You look up at him. His lips are parted, his cheeks flushed. You kiss his fingertip and slide your hands over his bare thighs, your thumbs curved in the dip of his hips, close enough to touch his cock if you wanted -- but not.

His tongue darts out of his mouth and his body shakes as he exhales. “So how, uh, how's this shaking out?”

You know what he'd say in your position: _That's for me to know and you to find out._ (He has before. He can be kind of a smartass.) But you're not him, you don't know if you could pull off the same kind of smug, so you press your thumbs into his skin, watch the way his eyelids flutter. “I was thinking I'd edge you.”

The corners of his mouth turn up into a slow smile and he touches your ear, drawing his finger around the curve, light enough it's almost ticklish. “Yeah. Yeah, gosh, okay. Do you want, uh, should I lie back down?”

“You're good, baby boy,” you tell him, and his laugh turns into a sharp gasp when you lean forward and lick his dick into your mouth. (You were absolutely shitty at this the first time you tried it, too much teeth, and Brian had patiently let you practice -- _It's not like it's a struggle,_  he'd laughed -- until you figured out a lot of it was hand action, and your mouth was there as a bonus. You're pretty damn good at it now.) He falls back onto an elbow and the fingers on your ear slide into your hair, not tugging you around, just keeping you there.

Brian's never fucked your mouth -- he won't say it, but you know he's a little concerned about your gag reflex, about how you'd react when you choked -- and you feel a thrill snake its way up your spine at the idea that maybe it won't matter by the end of tonight, maybe he won't have the self-control to care. Maybe you'll be able to make him lose it.

He whimpers under his breath and you pull off him, holding him firmly at the base of his dick. He usually comes a couple times, he's young enough it's easy for him, and you could let him come -- give yourself some wiggle room to really string him out until he came again -- but it feels like it'd be cheating. Where's the challenge if you're being buoyed along by a refractory period?

You squeeze his dick gently and look up at his red face. “Remember when you mentioned getting a, uh, buying a cockring?”

“You can't talk about cockrings with your hand on my dick,” he protests, collapsing back onto the mattress and covering his face with his hands. “It's not, it's no bueno, it's too much.”

“If that's too much, we're gonna have a short night.” You stand, grabbing his legs and swinging him up fully into the bed while he _oofs_ quietly. “I've got _plans_.”

His eyebrows arch and he drops his hand to his dick, slowly beginning to stroke himself. Which would normally be fine, God, if you're not on board with watching Brian get himself off, but it's also contrary to the point. Contrary to what you'd built yourself up for in the kitchen.

You kneel over his legs and bat his hand away, and his eyebrows just go further up -- and he stretches his arms above his head, his fingers curling around the top of your mattress. “Like this?”

You roll the words over your tongue before you say them, trying to determine the best cadence, the best tone, and you think of the thrill that vibrates underneath your skin when Brian praises you -- “Good boy,” you tell him, your voice low, and he swears under his breath and closes his eyes. You drag your hand up his chest, over one of his nipples, until your fingers curl around the front of his neck, his Adam's apple between your thumb and forefinger. You squeeze enough for him to feel it.

“Keep your hands there.”

He swallows and you can feel it, the muscles in his neck moving. (He'd led you back to your room one night, a wicked grin on his face, and told you he'd been practicing. You'd gotten out a _what_ before he'd worked your jeans open and pushed you back onto your bed, before he’d literally swallowed your cock, fucking deep-throated you. After, in between lazy kisses, he'd told you, _Next time you should feel my throat? I dunno if it'd work but it'd be hot, right, if you could feel yourself fucking me._ God, he'd giggled at your expression.) You duck your head and rake your teeth over the line of muscle, what's it called, you used to know, little did Mrs. Jameson in 8th grade science know the most applicable use of you learning the muscle groups was when you were fucking your boyfriend.

Brian hums, his arm tensing next to your head, and you drag your teeth down, slotting your mouth over the top of his shoulder. You're close enough to him that you can feel his dick against your stomach, and when you suck at his skin, you roll your hips forward, give him just enough pressure to mean something. One of his hands drops to your head, works through your hair, and you fucking love his hands in your hair but you also -- you told him.

You grab him by the wrist, pushing yourself up on your other elbow. “Pretty difficult thing to fuck up, Brian.” You push his hand to the bed, tighten your fingers until you can feel his bones shift.

“You need a headboard I can grab into,” he says, and there's a hint of humor to it, but mostly he sounds thoughtful. Like he's considering it. Like he's disappointed you've got some modern fabric-covered bullshit instead.

“You need self-control,” you reply, which on any other day would be rich, coming from you -- Brian, God, he likes it when you beg -- but the way he looks at you when you say it… “You gonna do what I say?”

You put your hand back on his neck. He swallows, his eyes locked on yours, and you rub your thumb over his pulse.

“Yes, sir,” he says, just this side of cocky, and you breathe through the rush that sends through you, how it hardens your Goddamn dick. And then he closes his eyes and licks his lips, and -- “Pat, can you. My mind's uh, running a mile a minute, and I'd really rather, I would like to _not,_  you know --”

And yeah, fuck, you're doing a shitty job of keeping him distracted. You squeeze his neck once before fumbling for the lube in the side table next to the bed, before shifting down the mattress. “Turn over, on your knees.”

Brian does, he follows your order like he's eager for it, and you have to take time to breathe again. Shit. You're perfectly happy to let him take the reins, to not have to figure out what the fuck you're doing (it's -- nice, to lie back, to give up that responsibility) but God, there's something to be said for Brian, willing and ready, bent in front of you. For the speed at which he complied.

And now you've got a view. Fuck. You have to palm his pretty ass, drag your thumb down the cleft softly. He presses his face into a pillow when you circle his hole, muffling his soft moan.

(Brian loves being fucked. He loves straddling you, asking _is that all you've got?_ while he rides your dick, laughing when you call him a mouthy motherfucker. One night you'd asked him if he'd wanted to maybe switch things up, and he'd looked at you with a gleam in his eye and said he'd always wanted to try rimming, if you were up for it. God, had you been up for it. God, had you wanted to make him squirm like he made you.)

You spit next to your thumb and push the tip in, gentle, and lick your tongue over the muscle as he slowly lets you in. You hear his soft _oh_ and his ass tightens around you. You hear his soft _Patrick_ and you pull your thumb out, replace it with your pointed tongue, and you don't think about anything but the way he said your name and how he's pushing back against you, trying to take you in deeper. ( _It tastes like bitter skin, mostly?_ he'd told you, wrinkling his brow. He tastes like sweat.) You lick across his hole and then fuck your tongue into him, holding his ass apart, and you can hear his labored breaths above you, the soft whine when you withdraw, when you watch his hole quiver.

“Fuck, you're gorgeous,” you tell him, and you close your mouth over him, suck at his skin before pushing your tongue back in. His shoulders drop forward, and you slide your tongue out, drag it over the base of his balls, over his taint, and his hips jerk forward, unsettling you. You laugh against his hot skin, and when you lick up the cleft of his ass you realize his hips are starting to rock.

You sit up enough to see his hand on his dick, all his weight on his other shoulder, on his face, and you grab his wrist before you think the action through, pinning his hand to the mattress.

“Oh come on,” he pants, wriggling his arm in your hold. “Fuck, come on, Pat, just let me.”

You can feel the muscles in his wrist shift as you tighten your grip. God, the breathy whine of his voice makes you want to let him, let him get himself off while you eat him out… But he's still thinking. You know he's still thinking, if he can -- shit, you're ignoring your dick right now -- if he can protest. If he can disobey. “You're really fucking bad at directions, baby boy.”

You can't see his face. You see the long curve of his back and his hips, still rocking forward, just a little, like he's chasing sensation. You can hear him huff a laugh as he twists his arm, until he can run his fingers over yours. “Make me.” His nails scrape over your knuckles. “I'm gonna, I'm gonna keep --” and his voice is thready now, you can hear the nerves in it, “-- moving, so, so you should, you should make me.” And then, in case you didn't put it together ( _I_ _'m not a fucking ingenue,_  you'd told him when he'd asked you if you'd ever done anything kinky, and he'd lifted a brow, hummed, told you he never said you were a _fucking_ ingenue), he drags his other hand out from underneath himself, drops it on the bed beside him. “Tie me up.”

Your first thought is, pragmatically, that you don't have anything that'd work well for that. Your second thought is less cohesive, a wave of heat that spiders out through your body like you were just electrocuted.

You can't see his face. You're pretty sure he’s smiling.

“Turn over,” you tell him, and he does, his knees nearly knocking you in the head. His face is red, his lips flushed and full. The texture of your pillow case has creased his cheek. He _is_ smiling. His blush trails down his chest. His dick's curved up against his stomach -- and you have to drag your eyes away from it.

You have… you might own a tie, if you didn't get rid of it. You have a belt, and a scarf somewhere. You have the sudden urge to Google it: _safest way to unexpectedly tie someone up._  Which would probably get you a lot of uh, roleplay scenarios, you assume. Sexy sneak attacks.

You press your palm flat against Brian's stomach, just above his dick. “Don't touch yourself.”

He stretches his hands up above his head and gives you a look like you've got minutes until he disregards your instructions. Fucker.

You find your belt in your closet (that seems… dangerous?) and you don't find a tie -- it would've been a little fifty shades of grey anyway -- and you're considering if a sock would work (put his hands together, stretch the sock out over both hands like a big, single glove) when you push past your old gym bag and see the edge of an ace bandage flopped out of the opening. Oh thank God. You pull it out -- give it a quick sniff, stale but doable -- and return to Brian.

His hands are still above his head. His eyes are closed, and he's worrying his bottom lip. When you touch his hip he shivers. He hadn't touched himself, and his erection's not flagging -- God, _youth_.

“Sit up,” you direct him, and you kneel on the bed with one leg and guide him up. “Hands behind your head,” you tell him, and he mumbles _yes, sir_ in a way he probably intends to be needling but that continues to go straight to your dick.

“I've thought about this,” he says as you cross his wrists, as you start looping the bandage around them. “I've never done it.” You hear him blow out a steady stream of air and reach forward, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Thanks. So what I'm saying is --”

“Don't fuck it up?” you ask, slipping the end of the bandage inside the wrappings and sliding a finger under, making sure it's not too tight.

He tips his head back. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his smile smug. “Mm, more like, you get to be my first.”

“Oh fuck you,” you bite out, but you're laughing, you're so Goddamn turned on by the very idea, your dick pressing against the front of your jeans. You kiss him, hard and quick, pulling away before he can open his mouth and try to suck on your tongue like he always does; and you let go of his arms, let him fall back onto the mattress. He bounces a little.

He tugs his arms gently, testing, and hums. You left him a little give, but he definitely can't touch himself. “Okay, boss,” he says, and he nudges your knee with his thigh. “Can you, um. Diversion over?”

You touch his leg, scrape your nails over his skin lightly. You cycle through a couple positions in your head and think about how much you like watching him when his mouth is on you, whatever he's doing. You settle low on the end of the bed again and slide his leg over your shoulder, raise him enough you have access to every Goddamn inch of him. “Ass-eating: resumed.”

His laugh stumbles into a moan when you shove your tongue into him, when you wrap your hand around his dick. His leg presses against your ear when you push a finger in next to your tongue, in deep enough to find -- there, his prostate. ( _Not as, not as far in,_  he'd told you once, your mind overwhelmed by the sensation of him around you, the heat of him, the sounds he’d made, _just a few inches straight ahead and, oh_ God.) You lick around your finger as you rub slow circles inside of him, and then you lick up his taint, over his balls until you have to slip your hand up his dick so you can suck at the soft skin there.

“Pat,” he says, and he rolls his hips, your finger sinking into him further. “Pat, c'mon,” he says, and you pull out, search blindly across the mattress. “Pat,” he whines, until he hears the click of the lube bottle and then he whispers, “fuck, yes,” and digs his heel into your back, like there was any chance you'd try to get away. You drip lube directly into his hole, you _think_ you cap it again, and you inch two fingers into him, spreading him open while he whimpers above you. His leg is starting to shake. Fuck, you want to make him come. You want to make him desperate, want to make him beg, want to be the one who makes him ask for what he wants, what he needs. (He deserves to let go. You want to be the one who gets him there.)

You take your hand off his dick, taste him one more time before pulling back, and you keep your fingers inside of him, stretching.

“Oh God,” he whispers, and when you look up at him his arms are straining, like he's trying the strength of the bandage. Or like he knows he could get free if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

You scissor your fingers, sliding in deeper. His eyes are closed. His mouth hangs open. He's -- fucking beautiful. “Do you want to touch yourself?”

He stutters out a heavy breath. He licks his lips. “I want you to touch me.”

“I am touching you.” You push your fingers in until your palm's splayed against his ass. “You think you could come from this?”

He bucks his hips, jerking your fingers inside of him. His hair's falling back in his face, sticking to his forehead, his cheeks. “No,” he grits out, and the low growl of his voice curls warmly inside your gut.

“Got it,” you reply, and you duck your head and dive your tongue between your fingers, lick in as far as you can with as wide as you can spread him, close your mouth over the side of his hole and suck. He starts twitching when you find his prostate again, draw your fingers over it smoothly, slowly, while you lick at him, while you suck on his taint.

“Fuck, fuck, Pat,” he gasps, and you still your fingers. You kiss his hole. “You fucking -- keep, please, keep -- you. You.”

You pull your fingers out of him and he makes a sound like -- fuck, like he's wounded, and you grab his leg and as you sit up, you push it up towards his chest, Goddamn if he isn't just the bendiest motherfucker. You don't take advantage of that enough. (You need to in the future, figure out whatever weird yogic bullshit the two of you can do together.)

His ass is up against your dick like this and you have to breathe slowly, have to focus on the glazed expression on his face so you don't think about yourself. Focus on his red lips, starting to swell because he's biting them so much. Focus on being a massive prick, which is -- more fun than you'd expected. You can be a real asshole a lot of the time, but you don't lean into it during sex. (Brian's bratty and you like it, it turns you the fuck on when he yanks your chain, but you'd never thought of it in reverse. Like maybe you'd been worried that if you'd tried, you wouldn't pull off fun -- you'd just be a shithead.) “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Ohhh my God.” He smiles briefly, almost like a tic, because just as soon after he's wriggling against the bandage, he's pushing up against you. “You -- fucker, _did I say,_  har har, fuck.”

You brush his hair away from his face, trail your fingers down his cheek, his neck. You scrape a nail over his collarbone, watch his flushed skin go white and then pink again. You bet you could fuck him like this.

Shit.

You could just open your jeans, pull out your dick, and slide in. He's wet enough, stretched out just enough that he'd still feel it in an hour. “I'm weighing my options,” you tell him, because you can't ask him what he wants, the point of this is he doesn't have to figure anything out, the point of this is to make him lose his Goddamn mind. The point is to help him -- to give him something for once, when he spends his whole damn day trying to make you happy.

He licks his lips. His pupils are dilated, you can tell from this close. He draws up his other leg, slides his foot over your thigh. “Okay,” he says, “weigh them, could you, could you weigh them faster, maybe.”

His foot inches towards your dick and you catch it, hold it down to the mattress. “No,” you say, and he laughs, high in his throat. “I've got all the time in the world, baby boy.”

His eyes widen for a split second and then he's twisting his foot in your grip, wiggling his toes. The rest of him relaxes, like he's not being kept on the edge of coming. “Please,” he says, and you feel like you're about to step into a trap.

You let go of his foot and put your hand on his dick, your fingers loose. “Please what.” You press your fingertips against his hard, warm cock and just hold him there. Waiting.

“Please,” he repeats, and his foot is against your dick, just this side of painful, your zipper digging into your skin. “Please, sir.” You tighten your grip on him, a -- a warning. Sure, definitely not a reaction. (Fucking _sir_ . It's been a joke before. He even calls you _boss_ sometimes, completely aboveboard and always work-related. He doesn't defer to you outside of the office -- at least not sincerely. Not like this. Not with that tone. Not in a way that makes you feel… powerful.)

“Do I have to tie your feet too?” you say, and he breathes in sharply, which. God, you can imagine it, soft rope against his skin, and he'd struggle and go pliant in turn. “Would you like that?”

He closes his eyes, his teeth pressed into his lip.

“Would you like that, baby?” you ask again, and you start to jerk him off, your hand slow, your grip light. He's so Goddamn hard. You bet if you touched him any harder he'd come. You can get him to come twice easy, most nights, the first quick as hell -- getting him off before he tells you you're fucking him, or him coming with your dick in his mouth, his palm grinding against his cock. It's a heady feeling, knowing he's so eager for you, for sex. It's a heady feeling now, the control he's given you.

“Yes,” he says, voice low, and he arches his hips up when you swipe your thumb over the crown of his dick. “Yes, yes, keep -- keep, please, sir, _please_ ,” he says when you start to draw your hand away, and he takes his foot off your dick and wraps his leg around your waist, his heel digging into your back, keeping you close. “Fucking -- please.”

You drop your hand to his hip and he makes a sound like he's -- like he's been suckerpunched.

“Patrick,” he moans, and you have to close your eyes for a moment, focus on. On anything that isn't his red, pretty face or his dark, pretty cock.

On anything that isn’t how you feel when he says your name like that, how it mixes with the arousal coiling in your gut. ( _Po_ _werful._ )

You undo the front of your jeans and he shudders, a whole body shudder, and his arms stiffen and he blinks rapidly. “Yes, c'mon, fuck, fuck me, c'mon.”

You put your hand on your dick and you have to breathe out slowly, steadying, God. You find the lube and spill some onto your hand, coat your dick, slide two fingers easily back into Brian's quivering hole. He grunts when you pull out, and he whines when you drag the head of your dick over his sac, when you rub it over his hole.

“Fuck, Brian,” you breathe, and he rocks his hips like he could force you in. “Easy, baby.”

His laugh is thready, his legs tensing around you, and when you glance up at him, he's glassy-eyed, staring at you like you're a thousand miles away. “Please,” he mumbles, and that's the Goddamn downfall of your self-control, and you slide into him, rocking forward until you're flush.

He keens, hisses _fuck_ under his breath, turns his head on your pillow like he could somehow bury his face against his arm. Like this is almost too much. “Fuck me, fuck me, _fuckme_ ,” he babbles, and you pull him up so you can get the right angle, a better angle, so you can fuck him.

God, this isn't going to last long.

You push into him and he grunts, his whole body moving with the motion. He can't press his hands against your headboard, give himself leverage to push back -- all he can do is go where you put him. All he can do is take it. (He trusts you enough to let you have this power over him. He trusts you enough to let you restrain him. He trusts you enough to let go.)

You lean forward, bend him in Goddamn half, slide his feet over your shoulders and fuck into him, _fuck_ , and he's beautiful, his hair plastered to his forehead, his whole face red and splotchy. His lips parted just enough to repeat your name, and _please_ , and _God._ He's beautiful, and he's tight, heat, _good_ , and you grab at his sides, dig your fingers into his chest, press your thumbs below his nipples. He feels -- he feels incredible, he always feels incredible, and you tell him, tell him how good he is, tell him how good he feels, and you've been focused on him, ignoring your own dick until now, and _shit_. Shit, this wasn't supposed to be for you, but damn if it didn't work out in the end.

“Please,” Brian begs, and that's it, your nails sink into his skin and you fuck into him, keep rolling your hips as you come, as each inch of you lights up like you stuck your finger in a socket, electricity down to your bones. You chase the sensation, fuck him until it's too much, too sensitive, and you duck your head until your hair's brushing against his chest, until you can almost feel the vibrations from his babbling, from the steady stream of _yes please God Pat please please please_ pouring out of his mouth.

You don't feel put together enough to think, let alone speak, but he's shaking, he's starting to shake, and you draw your thumb over one of his nipples. He fucking _growls_ at you.

You pull out of him, let him unbend, let him lay back on the mattress, and your whole body feels electrified. You slide your fingers back inside him, three fingers, fuck they go in so easy, slicked by your come, and Brian's eyes are open and glazed and shining, like he's on the verge on tears. When you find his prostate he jerks against the mattress, but he's not even trying to get his arms free anymore, like he's forgotten he can, like he knows he's totally dependent on you for this. (He trusts you.)

You push back on the bed until you can grab his dick with your other hand, suck it into your mouth, and he sobs wordlessly, and he fucks up into your mouth like he never does, like he's always too careful not to do. His dick hits the back of your throat and you choke, but all it takes is your hand tightening on his dick and he moans, lets you hold him back, until -- fuck, who the fuck cares, you just won't breathe or swallow, so you let him, you let him snap his hips up, you let him push back against your hand, push up into your mouth, and there's no warning when he comes, nothing beyond his sobbing whine, and his ass clenches around your fingers and you keep your mouth loose, try not to choke again, let his come dribble past your lips.

His hips drop back to your bed. He lets out a long, low sigh followed by a slurred _fuck me_ , and then he laughs, his voice rough.

You look up at him between his spread thighs, your fingers stilled inside of him, and you don’t even think about it -- you wipe your other palm across your mouth. You feel loose. Uninhibited in a way you rarely do, and maybe it’s because you can still fucking taste every flavor of him, and maybe it’s because he _let you_.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, and you feel him tense around you, a quick spasm, like he can’t help it. You smile up at him, and you spread your fingers gently -- and he tenses again, twisting his hips. “Oh my God, bastard,” he laughs, and there’s a lightness to his tone now, something that wasn’t there this morning. That wasn’t there when you first got back to your apartment. (You did that. He let you.) His knee knocks against your shoulder. “Fucking -- untie me, Pat Gill. Let me touch you.”

You lift your eyebrows and drag your fingers out of him, slow. Rub your thumb over his hole. His eyes flutter shut when you do. He’s smiling, soft, and press a kiss to the inside of his thigh, to his hip.

“Hands are for touching,” he says, and you laugh, pushing yourself up. You help him sit, undo the bandage --

“Each time you flex your fingers you add half a minute to this process.”

“A whole half a minute?” he asks, and there's a warmth to his voice that fills your chest, a humor he couldn't pull off earlier. (You helped him. He let you.)

You chuck the bandage towards your closet and he's already twisting on the bed, sliding his hands into your hair until he can topple you both over, all elbows, his mouth finding yours eagerly.

“Oh God, let me _rinse-_ -” you protest, but he's an uncouth bastard and he kisses you like it's his right, his arms twining around you, his mouth open and seeking. You kiss him back, let him lick at your tongue lazily. “At least let me strip,” you manage between long kisses, and he laughs, hums _uh-uh_ as he holds you close.

“Thank you,” he breathes out against your lips, and you curl your fingers against his hip, brush your other knuckles over his stomach. (He doesn't need to thank you, but you know from experience if you tell him that he does it _more_. Contrary.)

And then his hand is on your chest, pushing you back so he can leverage himself over you, and his eyes are wide but not wild, no more than usual, and his smile is full of fucking mischief but not mania.

“So tying up my _feet too,_ ” he says, and you're laughing when you grab a pillow to shove into his face.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! i'd love to hear from you in a comment. ♥️♥️


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